


Dredged From the Depths and Tossed With the Waves

by deathwailart



Category: Original Work
Genre: Beach Sex, F/F, Fantasy, First Time, Mermaids, Pirates, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-31
Updated: 2011-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-23 07:38:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Women and mermaids have an understanding.  Men and mermaids do not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dredged From the Depths and Tossed With the Waves

Every night when the moon is full for as long as she can remember, Carmela has snuck from her cabin on the ship to the stern, bare feet slapping on wood where the lacquer has been peeled away from years at sea. When she was small she had to stand on her tiptoes just to see over the rail but she was never scared, not once even though she had seen men either fall or be pushed to their deaths from that same spot. Tonight is the same as any other night but she's older now and doesn't need to sneak away from the safety of her cabin (through the porthole normally, never through the door, too many people to spot her and put her back to bed). Most nights this is what she does before bed when she can't sleep, listening to the slap of the waves on the hull, the wind whistling through the sails, crew going to and fro, singing quiet shanties to time their work unless the seas are calm enough to drop anchor for the night. Tonight the seas are still enough to reflect the stars as she watches and waits, always hoping for a glimpse. She hums under her breath as she waits, an old song she remembers her mother singing to her when she combed through her hair before bed with a silver comb ("from the mermaids" her mother always said) and held her close so that her exotic perfumes tickled her nose even as she drifted off.

"Carmelita," she turns as her father makes his way to stand by her side, one solid arm around her bare shoulders. He smells like he always does - the spray of the sea, strong tobacco, the very best rum and the spices he likes to pick up on the islands they visit, "one night I am going to come looking for you only to see you fall over the railings."  
  
"I can swim as well as the men on the crew."  
  
"Ah but there are sharks in the waters. And all other manner of beasts who would rip you in two as soon as that." He snaps his fingers an inch from her nose and she rolls her eyes, giving him a shove before resting her head on his shoulder.  
  
"Do you believe in all those things papa?" She asks. She doesn't always ask but tonight she is feeling wistful, wishing that she could dive deep beneath the waves and swim with all the shimmering things that the crew haul up with their nets and rods - she only ever sees them gasping and dying, some of them the most impossible shapes and colours and she would wish to see them move, to feel their slippery scales shoot past her skin.  
  
He is quiet, staring out and he looks very old at times - he was an older man when she was born, her mother very young, swept away by the chance of a life of mystery and intrigue with a dangerous man with a bounty on his. "I have seen many things Carmelita," he begins, pulling his pipe from a pocket, lighting it and taking a deep inhale before he continues, "I have seen strange beasts, seen ships dragged to the death, men lured into the waves and doom. So I believe."  
  
"I'll see a mermaid one day," she vows even if it is apparently not this night. He laughs sharply, a bark of a thing and she frowns at him. "If all those things can exist then why not mermaids?"  
  
"Oh they will exist but they drag foolish men to the depths, men who think with only what swings between their legs. You, my darling," he pinches her cheek, a leftover habit from when she was small, "are far too sensible even if your mother filled your head with her soft, romantic notions."  
  
It stings still when he can talk about her mother even if she knows that she was not the great love of her father's life. His love is the sea, why he has never made port or called any spit of land his home and she is the same, walks more surely on a rolling deck than she does on still, solid earth but she has her flights of fancy.

"Goodnight papa," she says at least, rising up to kiss him on the cheek as she makes her way down the stairs and inside. It's dark, darker than outside with the narrow hall and the low ceiling, the lanterns doing little save for illuminating tiny areas in a sickly orange, the air smelling of unwashed bodies and paraffin. Her own cabin is modest - it should belong to the cabin boy but she is the captain's daughter and as such if afforded better quarters even if they are not much. Her pretty birds - a pair of lovebirds, a gift from a starry eyed boy a few islands past chirp at her when the door falls shut, the lock screeching. She's forever forgetting to oil the damn thing. The birds quiet though, crooning to each other, tucked up and close. It's one of the few things here that belongs only to her because after her mother died she inherited her things, chests of jewellery and dresses, bottles of scented oils and perfumes, shiny daggers, a mirror inlaid with pearl and the silver comb her mother had combed her hair with as a girl. She keeps so many of the things but seldom wears the clothing although from time to time she will lift a scarf, wrap it around her neck and remember sleeping curled by her mother's side, safe and warm, jasmine tickling her nostrils. Her mother sang to her always and told her stories. She'd been so young when she'd had Carmela, barely more than a child herself and so the stories had been fresh in her mind when she'd passed them on.

"There are mermaids who swim along after ships darling," she'd said when Carmela's eyes had been heavy, the urge to sleep slowly claiming her but always she tried to stay awake to hear the whole story. "The men will say they only wish to lure sailors to their deaths but that is not true - they look for love, to hear the things we say but men fall in love so easily without understanding, too eager to please. When the mermaid tries to swim away in hopes that he will go back to the surface he does not - he follows her, he pursues her relentlessly until all the air from his lungs are gone and then his shipmates haul him out or some beast senses an easy meal."  
  
"But mama why are there no stories of the ladies and the mermaids?"  
  
"That my little one is because for so long ladies were not meant to come to sea. Men have so many strange tales about us because they do not understand. But we understand the mermaids."  
  
"Are there mermen?"  
  
"Well there must be but they are seldom seen, even by the mermaids. Only fleetingly, when the time is right."  
  
"And when is the time right?"  
  
Her mother had always laughed then, stroking her hair, "That is something you will learn when you are older, it is not for little ears."

With a sigh she undresses, kicking off her heavy boots, shoving her trousers down, fighting with the laces of her upper garments until she's finally naked, combing out her hair as she stares out the porthole into the tiny scrap of the night sky. The covers are cool when she settles beneath them and she sighs, closing her eyes and stretching out, feeling the shift of the ship, letting herself sink as though she is a part of it. She dreams of mermaids, of silver blue scales and pearls, tails that end in fins like some of the fancy fish people keep in glass jars to swim in circles all day long. And in the dream one of the mermaids takes her hand, her skin pale as bone and her hair the colour of the tropical shallows and they swim, the mermaid tugging her along and even though she cannot breathe the water, she isn't drowning, instead, she is laughing. 

+++

She likes to follow the ships, their pretty dancing lights, their songs, the smell of their food and she has followed this ship for who knows how long but always from below, always out of sight as flanging voices and sounds make their way down to her. She only feels safe enough to surface when it's dark, the moon gone from the sky or at the very least the merest sliver of a thing and besides, there is always a girl, no, not a girl, a young woman, who watches on the nights when the moon casts enough light to see. So she hides away. Tonight though she is curious and the ship is quiet so she drifts closer and carefully climbs up one of the sides enough to peek and watch the men lighting lamps, inspecting the rigging. But it has always been voices that catch her attention and she listens to the conversation, carefully moving along in the shadows the ship casts to listen and the girl...she is very beautiful and she stares up at her face until she leaves. Then it is just the man, face etched with deep lines and she slinks beneath the waves once more.

She tries the name on her tongue beneath the waves. _Carmelita, Carmelita_. It's the only safe place to say it for now - she has drowned people before by saying their name carelessly, has pulled them under her spell, so many young men damned to the depths to become the mermen, the relentless ones that the mermaids hide from, the ones the stories never truly talk about. Because she has heard stories, when it's been safe or from the other mermaids, sitting up on little boats in the shallows, listening as sailors talk about all manner of oceanic life, mermaids and sirens, krakens, great whales and squid. They have tale after tale about mermaids but so few on the mermen.  
It would ruin their romantic and tragic sensibilities she thinks if they knew that those lost souls became the mermen, always hunting, always questing, enraged and monstrous, the horrors of the depths that kill and maim, their souls lost to them for all eternity.

She peeks her head above the waves again and says Carmelita.

+++

Inside her cabin, dreaming, she stirs restlessly.

"Tallulah," she whispers, the sea disappearing rapidly as though she's rising up, caught in a net with the blue-haired sylph watching her, "Tallulah."

+++  
  
Morning comes with the familiar noise it always does, groaning of pirates from down the hall and scurrying about above the decks; the first mate's whistle blasts sharply - an old habit from when he was still in the employ of the navy that he has apparently never been able to kick - and it rouses her birds who chirp at her, sharp little beaks at the bars of their cage and she finally throws back the covers, picking up yesterdays clothes from the floor - they're clean enough to throw back on again but she leaves the boots off for now.

"Hello," she says to the birds, fingers between the bars to stroke their soft feathers, the birds nibbling at her fingers until they nip more sharply, drawing blood. She sucks on her finger but takes the hint to feed the silly things, letting them out to perch on her shoulders - her father has never owned a parrot or any pet that would sit about his shoulders but she likes having the birds there as they sing to her and peck at her hair or earrings. There's a knock at the door and she shoves her feet into her boots, grabbing her belt and cutlass as she does so, tiny nails digging into her bare shoulders as she heads to answer it, finding a frantic looking pirate on the other side, a low dogsbody type from the looks of him. "What is it?"  
  
"The cap-," he begins only to shake his head, "your father, he wants you up on deck, something got dragged up in the nets, something...something not right."  
  
"Are you alright?" She asks with a frown, moving across the room again to put the birds back in their cage before she follows him up to the deck, wondering about how pale he is in the face when he should be a healthy tan and the haunted look in his eyes as she races up after him to where the men are staring at something in the middle of the deck. The something, upon closer inspection is a net, mostly filled with fish and she has to wonder if they've dredged something poisonous up from the depths or if someone fell over the side at night only to be brought up or any other of the superstitions the crew carry with them, varying from island to island.

"Carmela!" Her father's booming voice grabs her attention and she makes her way to his side. He draws her in close and says a prayer under his breath so swiftly she can only make out one or two words of it but the fact that he called her by her name and not his pet name for her speaks volumes and she looks out to the deck. More men are praying, several pressed to the railings in groups even as they cast nervous eyes out at the water as though something eldritch is about to leap out and gut them or drag them in to their deaths.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Mermaid. Dragged her up this morning from the midnight nets."  
  
"What?" She cannot believe what she is hearing and she cranes her neck to attempt to get a better view. They have dragged aboard a mermaid, something she has longed to see and now it lies caught in their net, the men doing nothing, her father standing and waiting, for what she isn't sure. "Is she still alive?"  
  
"You!" Her father's bellow has her wincing, rubbing at her ear. "Check on it. Is it alive or dead?" The young man nods and unsheathes his sword, stepping closer, gulping and she holds her breath without thinking until she gasps when the sword jabs at what must be the mermaid's tail beneath the fish still in the night. She screams in a pitch that shatters the glass of a porthole. "The damn beast still lives!"  
  
"Papa!" Carmela knows what it means when he raises his arm in that manner, knows that it means there is a killing blow to be dealt so she wrenches herself free from his grip and hurries forward. The men startle but she is undeterred and makes her way to the net where she crouches.

"Carmela!"  
  
"What harm can she do on the deck of a ship!" So seldom does she raise her voice to her father but she wants to see this thing for herself and so she carefully untangles the net – cutting it would mean having to buy a new one and even she could face a night or more in the brig for wilfully destroying needed equipment. "Ssh, ssh," she soothes when the mermaid makes an upset sound and she touches clammy skin, scales decorating the outer edge of the arm and along her bare chest and over her breasts and she's sure she can see the lines of gills there too. "I won't hurt you."  
  
"Th-thank you."  
  
"You can speak?" The mermaid nods and goes still as the net is thrown off her, allowing Carmela a chance to really look at her for the first time, taken aback.

She is like the mermaid in her dreams – not quite identical but so close that she has to wonder if there is some sort of magic, like the siren songs that lure ships to wreck and ruin against rocks, the survivors devoured by the creatures. She is stunningly beautiful, the palest milky skin Carmela has ever seen in her life, so different from the tan of her own from her Spanish heritage and an entire life in the sun on deck. There are tiny fins at her elbows, blue and turquoise mingling, just like her tail, luminous blue hair with strange fins peppered through it, paler than her hair and translucent, a fine tracery of veins and spots of colour, a burnished orange-red. The tail is long and graceful; a more solid blue like her hair and ending in the same fins that furl and unfurl the way a nervous person would curl their toes.

The only thing marring the tail is the bleeding wound where the pirate jabbed at her on her father's orders and she brings a hand down to touch it. The mermaid jumps and there are a few cries of alarm before she holds a hand up.

"It's fine! It's fine don't panic!" The faces are unconvinced so she looks up with a sneer. "Are you men or are you cowards? Pathetic bilge rats the lot of you."

They are distinctly shamefaced, especially when her father approaches, his weapon drawn as he looms over Carmela and the mermaid who shrinks, drawing her tail close to her body.

"What do you want with this crew mermaid?"  
  
"I...I don't want to hurt anyone," the mermaid says quickly, her voice soft with a pleading note to it. "I don't have the power to do anything when I'm out of the water but I wouldn't...I've never wanted to hurt a soul."  
  
"Then why," her father leans down and when he gives Carmela's shoulder a tug, she moves out of the way, blood on her palm that she wipes on her trousers as she watches him, hoping he'll show mercy by releasing the mermaid unharmed, "have you been hanging around my ship?"  
  
"I wanted to see, I wanted to listen to your men singing and working. I like to hear your stories."  
  
"Cap'n!" A voice calls, an older crewman, grizzled and with pox scars across his face.  "The next island we come past sells the damn things, pays good money for them to be kept for all sorts of reasons or cut up for them damn witches."  
  
"I'll not have such a thing on my ship," her father growls but the man approaches further, hate and greed bright in his beady little eyes.  
  
"The money they pay cap'n, such great sums – they'll make a talisman too, protection."  
  
"Please," the mermaid whispers, "please just let me go, let me go back and I'll leave and never return."  
  
"You say you have no power out of the sea."  
  
"None."  
  
"And how long can you survive out of the water?"  
  
"I...I don't know."  
  
"We'll find out then. Clap her in irons and throw her in the brig. Find a nice damp spot for her."

She shrieks at the same time Carmela shouts, asking for clemency but it's too late, the mermaid is being lead away, struggling and wriggling as her wrists are locked in heavy irons by surly men, strong muscles rendering her struggles futile and mute. Carmela can do nothing but watch as she is carried away, crying out and she looks over to her father who is stony eyed and stoic as though he is doing nothing more than looking out at the sea and she forgets how much she is indulged – he is captain first, father second and he jokes when he is in a good humour or when he's drunk that he shows his age around her, leniency from sentimentality and the onset of old age but he is a feared man, a man with prices on his head, wanted dead or alive and he has killed many times, has tortured, has extorted. She forgets because she's his only child that he knows of who has been spoiled her whole life with pretty trinkets and with chances seldom few are given. She can talk back without being punished beyond a slap to the face when she goes too far and the men are expected to listen to her, to defend her with their lives even if they chafe at it and she knows there are a good handful who would put her in what they believe is her proper place if not for fear of her father's wrath. But she is reminded now of who he is and she does not begrudge him his rights to be captain, to do as he sees fit but that doesn't mean that she has to like it and she shoots him a hurt look (a childish thing but she is angry and upset and seeing a mermaid makes her think of all her rose-tinted child's imaginings) before she goes back inside.

The heavy door shuts and she leans against it, sighing as she tries to calm her heart, heading into the rooms reserved for the sick and the wounded. The doctor is asleep in one corner as she sneaks in, gathering a roll of gauze, a bowl and the alcohol unfit for drinking but safe for wounds, letting the door fall closed behind her again. The men returning from the brig say nothing, heading out to the deck where they're no doubt sorting the catch of the day, making plans of the best course to the island, the island where...

She shakes her head and heads for the brig, rancid stale water hitting her nose, the stench strong enough to make her gag as she peers about in the dark – light seldom filters in this far down but she hears the weeping and makes her way toward it, picking the lock quickly and leaving the heavy door open.

"I'm sorry," she says as a greeting, concentrating on not losing her footing in here thanks to the water being more like slime and algae beneath her and something so beautiful should not be here among such filth but she can't change that, not right now at any rate.  
  
"Why are you here?" The mermaid replies and she sounds resigned already, weary and being red marks from her struggles.  
  
"I...I came to clean up your cut," Carmela gestures to the congealed blood on her tail, scales sliced and askew, "if you'll let me."  
  
"If you want. It's not like it matters unless you're trying to make it pretty as if some blemish will lower my value."  
  
"I'll talk to my father." Dipping the cloth into the alcohol she dabs carefully, steadying herself when the mermaid jerks suddenly. "Sorry, I should've warned you about the sting, I'm used to it by now."  
  
"I didn't mean to get caught in the net; I don't want to hurt anyone."  
  
"I know." She presses a wad of gauze down and then carefully starts to wrap it, tucking it in.  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"Mama told me stories when I was very young, she did not paint you to be monsters."

The mermaid smiles shyly before wrapping her arms about herself, shivering.

"Are you cold?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I'll bring you something warm, what about food?"  
  
"I cannot eat...not," she takes a breath that sounds like the warning signs of a sob, "not right now."  
  
"Later then. Is there anything I can do?"  
  
She shakes her head, curling awkwardly into herself and Carmela wants to hold her but it's not her place to do so and the touch will most likely not be wanted when she's been manhandled, locked away and set up to be sold. If she lasts. She almost doesn't want to ask but she has to and before she can try to talk herself out of it, the question is on her tongue.

"How long can you survive outside of the sea?"  
  
"A week. As long as my scales and gills are damp. It has to be sea water."  
  
"I'll make sure that happens and I'll talk to him, later, when the crew aren't so unsettled and after he's had a few drinks, he'll listen then."  
  
"Thank you Carmelita."  
  
She freezes, a shocked smile on her face. "How do you know my father's nickname for me?"  
  
"I've been watching the ship a long time, I finally heard your name last night – I normally hide so I won't be seen, so I won't cause alarm. But...but I wanted to see you better so I peeked up."  
  
"What's your name?"  
  
"Tallulah."

Before she can say anything or mention her dream and how she had seen Tallulah, heard her name, held her hand, laughing and swimming she can hear movement getting closer. With a hushed and hurried apology she locks the door and races up the stairs and to her own cabin, stashing the pilfered medical supplies under her desk, boots kicked off and beside them before she rushes out to the deck again. It's her turn to climb up and into the crow's nest, a duty she seldom enjoys, finding it tedious to sit up there with the wind stinging her eyes and cheeks, the sun beating down even hotter without any source of shade but today she is happy to climb up and sit, staring down at the ship and the sea and out to where there's not a single speck of land. It gives her time to think, time to plan out how the next meeting with the mermaid – Tallulah – will go and how to talk to her father to see if she can make him relent, melting like butter as she once did as a little girl. 

+++

Tallulah curls in on herself once Carmela has left her, still trying to rub heat back into her arms. The sea can be colder but she's in motion then, always swimming and there are pockets of heat too, thermal vents, warm currents and they drag themselves up and onto rocks or onto beaches to bask in the sun the same way iguanas do, letting the heat suffuse through them before they shot back into the water once more, a whole group of them laughing and twirling. The seals so often join them, almost racing, even more graceful owing to their more streamlined bodies and she presses a hand to the ship, listening to the waves and wonders if she'll ever get to go back there again, if being held in a net (careless to swim into it, she'd been warned to be aware of her surroundings and she is but curiosity is a terrible thing that lures people to their doom) beneath the ship, frantically struggling to get out as the fish around her swarmed and wriggled, will be the last time she's ever in the ocean.

Maybe she'll die here in this horrid little cell that makes her want to retch from the stench of it. There are rats paddling about and she isn't comfortable at all like this. The scales not in the water itch, her gills are dry and uncomfortable and she would run her fingers over them but when she holds up her hands they are covered in the muck she's sitting in and she would rather not make herself ill from some infection – a miserable way to die she's sure, even if she were to be thrown back to the sea to stop her from spreading an illness to the crew she'd die if she became ill, unable to swim, unable to breathe through gills filled with pus from an infection. She'd drown or some shark would come upon her, ripping her apart. Although it might still be better than being made a slave. She has heard the horror stories. All young mermaids have, of men just as bad as the mermen, violence in their hearts and in the rest of them who want something more exotic than the normal brothel girls.

She looks down to her tail and the white bandages that wrap around it to hold the gauze in place. A speck of kindness, just as she had hoped but the rest are like the horror stories some of her older friends had told her.

"They don't trust us. They hear about the men who drown and die."  
  
"But they don't die..."  
  
"No. But would they believe us? No."

She drops her head down and closes her eyes to cry in silence as the ship rocks and sways.

+++

The day passes slowly until she is finally relieved from the crow's nest, her stomach growling as her hunger makes itself heard; she remembers now that she didn't have time for her own breakfast or for any other meal and her head swims as she climbs back down, stretching out her arms and legs from the long hours spent sitting in the same position. The sun sits low in the sky, beginning to set, a brilliant orange that she stands watching for a few minutes until she adjusts to standing upright once more. She wants to go down to the brig, to check on the mer- no, Tallulah, that's her name, Tallulah but she's too hungry to wait and so it's to the kitchen. It isn't officially a meal time so the mess is empty save for an apprentice or two scurrying about to clean up but the smell of dinner hits her nostrils and her stomach growls once again. A stew of some sort, using up the last of the meat before it went rancid and she knows that any off cuts will be used for bait when they fish again. The cook is whistling cheerfully when she clears her throat.

"Crow's nest?" She nods and is directed to a stool in the corner as he snaps at a returning apprentice. "Bowl, spoon, stew and bread. Cup of rum for her too." The bowl is handed over first and she makes short work of it, shovelling it down and mopping the bowl clean with the bread (stale, hopefully they'll get to an island soon to restock supplies) before knocking back the rum and leaving. She could stay, could linger around and trade gossip but she wants to get in some extra work for her father to put him in a mood where he'd be happier with her and so she heads to his cabin next, knocking the door, waiting with bated breath for him to allow her in.

"Carmelita," he greets her and he must be in a better mood if he's using her pet name once more, "what can I do for you?"  
  
"I came to see if there was anything I could do for you papa," she kisses his cheek and sits down in the other chair opposite his desk where ledgers are spread out and she hides her grin. Her father hates having to manage accounts for how much the crew are being paid and the first mate is too busy bellowing at the crew to be bothered with it either.  
  
"You could do the damn accounts for me, got no head for numbers." It's an outright lie but she turns the books towards her and begins working, the quill scratching across the paper as she works. Her father is silent, something that doesn't always bode well, not when she can feel his eyes on her but still she keeps working, remembering the figures taught to her by the old first mate before he died from a shot to the gut.  "Someone said they saw you sneaking from the direction of the brig today," he muses, tone deceptively light as she finishes one line of figures and looks up at him. She had been taught early to always look him in the eye when she spoke to him, to keep his attention and to show him due respect.  
  
She licks her lips before speaking, taking a brief pause to allow her to use the right words. "A crewman mentioned selling her. If the cut on her tail gets infected then she might die – it would be bad luck would it not, to let a mermaid die on the ship?" Her father makes a non-committal noise so she presses on. "And you will not fetch a high price if she is sick. Or if she has a scar on her tail."  
  
"Clever girl, aren't you?"  
  
"Papa?" She can't read his tone or his face now and that makes her frown, eyes going back down to the page.  
  
"Ah, never you mind. I'll let you get on with this, we'll speak more on things later, I must speak with the sea wench myself."

Her heart stops, ice settling through her veins but she nods and goes back to the books, crossing her fingers in hopes that his discussion with Tallulah will go well. 

+++  
  
"Carmela?" Tallulah asks when the door opens again but the footsteps are too loud and soon enough she sees a man entering, the one she saw standing by Carmela the night before, the man who is captain of this ship and she shrinks as though she might become one with the wall, letting her hair fall down to cover her face. His beard is trimmed close to his face with a few beads threaded through it, his moustache broad and there are flecks of grey through the dark hair. Tanned too, darker than Carmela, probably from being so much older – all sailors seem to go the same way, years of sun and wind and spray tanning their skins and making the skin leathery once old age sets in, lines and wrinkles so much deeper and severe than they might otherwise be. Older men who become mermen are the same and it doesn't help her get over her fear of him or what he might do to her.

"No," he answers when he stands before her cell and he is a big man, broad shoulders, still muscular, an imposing figure illuminated by the candle he carries. The light makes her eyes swim – she's better where it's darker, just like the sea and this direct light source is unwelcome but then again everything is unwelcome because _she_ is unwelcome.   
  
"Arsenio. Captain. You?"  
  
"Tallulah, captain." She hesitates before adding on the title, hoping to seek his favour or to at least prevent his mood from worsening.  
  
"I see my daughter bandaged your tail."  
  
"Yes. She was very kind."  
  
"Do you reckon you deserve that kindness?" He asks, at the bars of her cell door now, leaning against them and she blinks up at him stupidly, not understanding what he means precisely and not knowing what is the correct answer to give so she opts for the truth, forcing herself to look up at him.  
  
"I mean no harm captain," she says, willing her voice to be steady and firm and for her bottom lip to not tremble, breaking down into tears will not do. "I only...I only wished to hear your crew work."  
  
"Are you sure about that?"  
  
"No one wants to hurt them...it is not our fault that our voices compel you, but they always have, as far back as any can remember." She should possibly not say so much but she wants to make him understand that she is not a threat and that she is powerless here. There is nothing to be gained by making threats or grand boasts she cannot hope to back up so she does not even try – she doubts she could muster the right sort of tone of righteous indignation and fury in her voice and in her eyes.  
  
"Go on," the captain commands and she inhales with a shaky sigh, twisting around to look at him properly.  
  
"When we're not in the sea we don't have any power at all, it's why we go to land when we want to talk or into a boat or a ship," she bites her lip a moment before continuing, "and a lot of the time...our voices don't do anything unless someone else wants them to. We don't want to do what we do."  
  
"You don't want to kill men? Lead them to their doom?" The captain sounds incredulous and she supposes that she cannot blame him – after all, she knows how it must appear to those who see their friends or crew go over the side to chase after one of her kind past the point of reason.  
  
"They don't die, not...not in the way that you would think captain. Mermen are different to mermaids, they are not born like us, only mermaids are born when the mermen and mermaids come together. They are the souls of those men who pursue us."  
  
"But it is your voice that drives them to that."  
  
"None of us mean to do it. If there is no merman in that part of the sea then something happens to our voices. Some of us think it's a sea goddess but none of us know for sure what it is but our voices change and when we sing the men become so entranced that they follow us. We don't _want_ them to follow us." Awkwardly she moves so she is close to the bars, her hands wrapped around them and she doesn't not miss the little flinch he gives at her movement even if his eyes and face give away nothing. "Those lost souls become mermen. They are filled with rage. Violent. We swim close to your ships for protection so often because they won't dare to get too close because ships are the only thing they fear."

The captain is silent as she lies on the floor, hands tight to the bars, the metal links between the cuffs shaking as she does as the candle gutters, water sloshing back and forth

"Am I supposed to take your word for it?"  
  
"There is no other way to prove it."  
  
"Convenient that, isn't it?"  
  
"What reason do I have to lie? I can't make it out of this cell or up the stairs and off the ship on my own. I will die in this cell."  
  
"And maybe you'll deserve it."

The captain turns on his heel and leaves even as she pleads with him to come back. The door slamming shut sounds like a death sentence. 

+++

It's been years since she's been sent back to her cabin while her father holds council with his crew and yet here she is, shut away with someone standing guard at the door to make sure she doesn't sneak out the way she did as a child. So she sits and swears under her breath, throws an empty bottle of rum hard enough at the door to make it shatter, her birds squawking angrily at the sudden commotion but she cannot bring herself to care. Her father ordered her out as soon as he came back from seeing Tallulah and there is nothing to do in her cabin. Well, she could clean up the glass but she hopes that the next poor sod to come to her door has bare feet and ends up howling and limping away, trail of bloody footprints behind them. She wants to find out what happened, wants to talk to Tallulah, to bring her food because it's been hours now, definitely night now and a pitch black one at that, the moon hidden away behind the clouds and Tallulah had been stuck in that net for hours before being hauled onto the ship. She needs water too, anything.

She needs to be out of that cell.

Another hour passes, the ticking of the clock driving her mad until she hears more footsteps, murmured voices and then a knock on her door.

"What!" She is in no mood to be polite or to pretend to be civil, not when she has been so firmly put in her place, reminded that she is young and a woman and holds no real rank or say on the ship.  
  
"Your father wants you in his cabin. You'd best come." The now does not need to be spoken so she pours more water for the birds and a little more food and stamps out – the glass does not go unnoticed but they're wise enough to say nothing about it as they escort her to her father's cabin, ushering her in and shutting the doors behind her.

The table is laid out with food, meats and fruits and vegetables, cheeses and breads and she can smell good wine from her father's own cache – he won a vineyard in some dice game years ago and he stocks up with the win each time they make port at that island. It's rare that she even shares it and if she rebuffs his offer of dinner things will only be worse so she smiles and takes her seat across from him, moving a candle so it won't singe her sleeves when she reaches for the meat. The captain always has better food than the crew and the lion's share of it too but normally the higher ranking members of the crew will dine with him, or the few guests he may have, ladies (not the whores) that he wishes to bed. But tonight he's dining with her and she listens as he talks about the day, about the crew and she knows he's not mentioning whatever he discussed with Tallulah on purpose or the meeting with the crew and it grates on her already frayed nerves but she bears it and keeps eating until she stops to sit back and savour the wine.

"You're probably wondering why I wanted you here to eat with me."  
  
"Does a father need a reason to have dinner with his only daughter?"  
  
"True but not the reason." He takes a long drink of his wine and sets the goblet down. "Spoke with the mermaid, spoke with the crew. Told them what she told me, asked them what they reckoned. They don't believe a lot of what she said but the ones I've known years, the ones I set out with...more stalwart. Don't jump on all these strange beliefs some of the lot I've picked up believe." He takes another drink and she wills herself to be patient, to not blurt it out or to demand answers and resumes eating, making an interested noise. "They don't abide cruelty to girls. Not the sort of men to beat a woman, to cause her any undue harm and I'm no fan of slavery."  
  
She nearly sags with relief to hear that. "I had hoped that you wouldn't do such a thing to her."  
  
"A captain has to be a captain. You know that."  
  
"I do."  
  
"That man will be leaving the crew. He knows now that there is no slavery aboard my ship."  
  
"What about Tall-" she catches herself, "the mermaid?"  
  
"You'll be in charge of her care. The brig is no place for any sort of lady and so long as she isn't in the sea she has no power, all the men agree with that one, some from personal experience. So we've found a basin someone hauled aboard for god knows what reason. It'll be in your cabin, you'll be responsible for her."  
  
"Wh-what?"  
  
"Have you gone deaf Carmelita?"  
  
"No Papa," she replies quickly and he's smiling, a genuine smile, "but why?"  
  
"You've wanted to see mermaids from the first you could speak and I am becoming a stupid old man who wants to make his daughter smile. We'll figure out what to do with her once we've restocked."

She shoves away from the table and hurries around to throw her arms around her father, kissing his cheek and laughing brightly. She trips over her thank yous and she is a girl once more who has been brought some shiny trinket or beautiful thing, her father this brave, strong, dangerous man who kept her safe and gave her all her heart could desire.

"Now sit, finish your meal and take enough back to the cabin for her too. She'll be there when you get back."

And true to her father's word, Tallulah is there upon her return. 

+++

It takes Tallulah time but eventually she makes herself comfortable in her new surroundings, wondering who this cabin belongs to, nervous but she is surrounded by sea water as much as is possible – the basin has sides high enough for her gills to be submerged and she nearly moaned aloud when they hit the water. The irons being removed had her thanking them because some semblance of freedom and being out of the brig is good enough that she will accept whatever treatment she is given at the hands of whoever owns this cabin. Looking around she sees boxes of trinkets, clothes and boots, a desk with old maps and other things she cannot make out from the angle she lies at. Above her are two birds in a cage that trill at her and she smiles up at them. She tries to whistle too but she's never learned how to do so the way the humans can so she hums to them instead, delighted when they echo back to her in their high tones.

Eventually though she's roused from her silliness by the door opening and she feels sick, missing the face of the person – the room's true owner – as they enter back first, kicking the door closed before turning to face her.

"Carmela!" Relief makes her dizzy as she sits up, a little water sloshing over the sides of the basin as she cranes her neck. Unfamiliar smells reach her nostrils and the woman is carrying a tray of food as she approaches, kneeling down next to the tub.  
  
"I brought you a little of everything from my father's table – I don't know what you like to eat but it's been hours since you last ate, there must be something."  
Is she...she sounds as if she's babbling and there's a smile on that tanned face. "Thank you...I thought after he spoke to me that he'd leave me there."  
  
"Please, eat, I'll explain once you've eaten."

Tallulah uses her elbows to raise herself up, staring at the array of foods to realise that she recognises nothing.

"What did you bring me?" She asks in a small voice and Carmela stares before she shakes herself and dutifully points to each food, saying what it is, what's been done to it. "We don't eat cooked things. We can't. We can steam things over vents if we find them but we eat them cold and raw."  
  
"Can you eat cooked food?"  
  
After a clumsy moment with a fork, Carmela's warm, callused hand over hers she takes her first stab at it. "I'm going to find out."

+++

  
After dinner (she likes their food, she decides, more flavours, more textures and the wine is delicious) Carmela talks about her mother and Tallulah talks about hers in kind, the birds free from their cage to perch curiously on the edge of the basin, preening and fluffing their bright feathers. She tells Carmela about the fish that she keeps in her room, ones with huge fancy tails that swim lazily and the smaller ones that dart about and she tells her about the conversation she had with Carmela's father.

In the end, they talk into the small hours, until she and Carmela are both yawning, the birds asleep in their cage, heads pressed to one another.

"I should sleep, you too. I need to be up in the morning to see to my duties and you've had a busy day to say the least."  
  
"Yes. Thank you."  
  
"It's not me you need to thank."  
  
"The men that brought me here said that you were the real reason I was shown kindness, because the captain loves his daughter and the captain's daughter loves mermaids." Carmela blushes, a rosy flush across her cheeks and some impulse has her reaching up a hand to touch the pirate's cheek. "So I will thank you, Carmela."

And then bravely, she leans up to kiss her gently on the lips. 

+++

Time passes on the ship where she learns the comings and goings. She is confined to Carmela's cabin of course because she cannot move easily but Carmela leaves the window open for her to catch the sea breeze and sometimes the call of gulls and the crew. Carmela brings her books when she realises that she can read and there aren't many of them but it's something to pass the time and to keep her from being bored. She thinks too, she probably thinks too much but from that very first kiss of gratitude she has learned a great deal. She knows that she is beautiful – all mermaids are and the others she's met have told her that, sailors and mermaids alike – and she thinks Carmela is beautiful too and her kindness only adds to that. After that first kiss, Carmela was flushed and embarrassed and it took most of the next evening and liberal rum to get the pirate to explain why – girls do not often kiss girls for a whole host of convoluted reasons but since then they've kept kissing. And more. She smiles as she thinks about it, about lying side by side on Carmela's bed, learning to undress her as Carmela explored Tallulah's different form but they have not gone far enough in Tallulah's opinion. She wonders why but never asks, instead contenting herself with what she has.

She's interrupted from her musings as she so often is by the door opening, Carmela appearing with a grin along with some other sailors.

"Carmela?"  
  
"We're dropping anchor here – some of the crew are going to port but you and I are going out to the beach," Carmela explains and now Tallulah understands the presence of the pirates – Carmela cannot carry her on her own so she is hoisted between the two of them carefully and brought up on deck. It's quiet, just a few bodies keeping watch and there's little talk as she and Carmela are helped into one of the little lifeboats and lowered, Carmela taking hold of the oars until they're out of sight of the ship. "C'mon, you haven't been in the sea for a good couple of weeks now."

It's all the encouragement Tallulah needs, dragging herself over the side of the boat, diving deep, stretching out. She lets out an exuberant whoop beneath the waves and swims in ever widening spirals and loops, doing all of the things she has missed until she finally surfaces in dramatic fashion, flipping her hair back so she can cling to the edge of the boat where Carmela is watching her with a wide smile but there's something wrong, something she can't quite put her finger on – she's happy, Carmela should be happy too.

"Thank you," she says, reaching out to touch Carmela's hand. The woman nods jerkily and Tallulah can see her swallowing carefully.  
  
"You're free to go now – I just wanted it to be a surprise, I wanted to be able to watch you say goodbye and to say sorry for what happened."  
  
"I...I can go?" It's not as if they could stop her as soon as she was on the deck, not with how few bodies there were and in the water, away from nets she is free anyway.  
  
"Yes," Carmela says nothing else and looks away, out to the horizon and when Tallulah tries to touch her hand she yanks it away violently.  
  
"Carmela what's wrong?"  
  
"How can you ask that?"  
  
"I don't understand!" She shouts without meaning too but her enjoyment is being spoiled by Carmela's attitude. "I thought we were going to the beach too."  
  
"You're free."  
  
"But I want to stay."

Carmela says nothing for a long time and Tallulah is worried she'll row back to the ship but instead she moves carefully, leaning over the edge to trail her fingers in the water.

"We're from different worlds."  
  
"That doesn't matter," Tallulah cups Carmela's face in her hands, kisses her until the pirate kisses back and she can feel the tension easing. "I would keep following you. _You._ You're important. I'm coming back with you...if you'll have me."  
  
"Of course I'll have you," Carmela declares fiercely but Tallulah is sure she sees a few tears that are quickly hidden by cheeks dampened from Tallulah's hands. "Let's go to the shore then."

Tallulah nods and vanishes and the thrill is still the same as she powers through the water to the shallows, rolling over onto her back once she's there, basking in the sun the way she used to in damp sand, the waves lapping lazily at the ends of her tail and she slaps her fins in the water the way she did as a child, waiting for Carmela to arrive and drag her boat up the beach so it won't be dragged away by the tide.

"I," Carmela looks down and away, toeing out of her boots, "I know that we haven't gone as far as we could but I didn't want you to do it in a bed. I wanted you to be in the water, I wanted you to be comfortable."

Tallulah already knows what she's talking about and she's surprised that Carmela is blushing when they've seen each other naked, when Carmela and she have already spoken about who they've been with before – pirates are so brazen about sex, or at least they talk that way and give that impression. But she doesn't laugh and instead beckons Carmela closer.

"The water and the sand are warm, come here." 

+++

When she planned this, she had planned a much more smooth seduction but instead she feels like a silly girl flirting for the first time with a pretty serving wench at a port or with the beautiful shipwright boy they'd briefly had, taking him to the next port in exchange for his services and as much as she would like to strip herself seductively she is too busy fumbling with buttons and fastenings and laces to do it, making sure they're weighed down in the boat – many men have come back from trips naked and she will be damned if she comes back the same way. Tallulah looks up at her with a smile that seems far too innocent when Carmela is now naked, making her way across the sand to kneel at Tallulah's side. They've seen each other naked, touched each other naked but there was no real intent then, simply exploration and now she knows where she wants to touch.

If there's anywhere to touch.

"Are you nervous?" Tallulah asks, taking Carmela's hands in hers and she nods, bending down to press a kiss to Tallulah's lips, tasting the ocean. "Don't be, it's not so different."  
  
"What do I do?" She gestures between her own legs and then sends a pointed look Tallulah's way, "I don't see anything."  
  
"There is, you'll just need to find it. Think of it as a treasure quest."

She kisses Tallulah properly to shut her up, shifting so she's on top of her and she's so much colder, damp scales clinging to Carmela's legs as she tests just how much weight she can press down with but Tallulah is stronger than she looks and pulls her down the rest of the way as Carmela strokes through her wet hair, fingers tangling until she has to pull away to breathe. She kisses down Tallulah's throat, pulling her fingers from her hair to touch her arms, scraping lightly when she feels the scales until Tallulah is groaning, wriggling beneath her. Heat pools low in Carmela's stomach and she slides down – so easy to slide down against the scales now that they're damp – kissing her sternum and then down between her breasts, her hands moving to cup and squeeze and stroke. The scales on Tallulah's breasts are sensitive, softer than she would have thought possible and the mermaid whimpers quietly, asking for more when she can manage.

Tallulah's hands are on her own gills, somewhere Carmela is afraid to touch her and with good reason – if they're injured, they can take a long time to heal and there's every chance they won't heal correctly. They're sensitive too and she can't judge it well enough. The one time she ghosted her fingers past them she had to stop, the skin and membranes so thin and damp beneath her hands, so easily torn and ruined. So Tallulah touches them herself and Carmela gets to listen to the sounds she makes, little hitches in her breathing, her 'hips' lifting and she keeps moving, pressing kiss after kiss down to her navel and then to where skin gives way to scales. There's a raised area she's never noticed before and curiously she runs her fingers over it and Tallulah cries out loudly, startling some birds from the trees a little way from them and Carmela stops, hand hovering, eyes wide.

"There...that's," she looks at Carmela through lidded eyes. "Keep touching there, you'll see, trust me, you'll see."

Carmela nods and strokes carefully, running her fingers over the scales until she separates them, her first and middle finger to make a V, framing the scales and she watches with astonishment as they slowly part to reveal a slit, flushed pink and she almost laughs because the placement is different but it's still close enough to what she has herself, to what she's touched before that suddenly she no longer feels worried. Her thumb brushes over a raised nub of flesh and the sound Tallulah makes lets her know that she's doing things correctly, that this is the same as her own clit and there's a rush of warmth and wet between her own legs as she rubs little circles, fingers teasing the edges of the scales as Tallulah undulates beneath her, pale skin beginning to flush. Carmela rises up on her knees so that she can touch herself, slow and steady so that she doesn't come right away but Tallulah reaches for her.

"Let me, please," she begs and Carmela nods and they move, rearranging themselves, Carmela still on top but with Tallulah's own curious fingers exploring as Carmela slides two fingers into Tallulah, gently and the mermaid lets her eyes fall closed, sighing as she rises up to meet her, mirroring Carmela's actions, Carmela so wet that they slide in effortlessly.

She doesn't mean to tease seeing as she's learning here, learning what works and teaching at the same time until Tallulah is tightening under her fingers, crying out and that has Carmela following her, having the sense to roll to one side to get her breath back, grinning as she rides her orgasm out, eyes closed before she glances over to Tallulah who's watching her with laboured breathing, tail still moving lazily. Carmela brings her hand to her mouth, licking her fingers to which Tallulah makes a horrified noise.

"Carmela no! That's disgusting! You can't!"  
Carmela grins wickedly, taking her time and making a show of it as she rolls onto her stomach, pressed close to Tallulah's side. "It's not, in fact, it's delicious."  
  
"You're not supposed to do that."  
  
"Oh? And what about if I put my mouth where my fingers were?" She asks with a leer, laughing when Tallulah turns her head to the side when she tries to kiss her.  
  
Tallulah shakes her head. "No, that's awful and foul, no one could enjoy it."  
  
"I've enjoyed it," she presses, "and any woman I've done it to says I'm very talented."

Tallulah bites her lip then but doesn't relent.

But the next time they're together at another stretch of sand and shore she relents and revises her opinion. 

+++  
  
Years later, Carmela has her own ship and branches away from being a pirate (although she's not averse to plundering when she can, sacking ships and stealing their loot) but she deals in silks and spices mostly, sailing with no real destination in mind. Tallulah is still with her, beautiful as ever but now Carmella has a home too, a small island off the shore from a mainland – once a volcano but now it's just her and Tallulah and the small house she builds there. The bottom floor is an open expanse from the inlet that leads to the island's river and that is where Tallulah enters from the sea when she is not following the ship. These days she wears ropes of pearls around her neck and through her hair and beautiful beads, all things Carmela has found in the markets where she trades her silks and spices.

At night though, no matter where they are Tallulah comes to her and rests her head on Carmela's knee as she combs through blue hair with her silver comb, singing Spanish lullabies.


End file.
